We Will Tame the Vicious Seas
by Fuzzball457
Summary: Danny calls out of work. Steve wants to know why.


Oh man does it feel weird to be here again! It's literally been years since I've written Fanfiction, so forgive me if it feels stilted or rusty at all. A recent binge watch of this show brought back the old FF urges. This is also my first H50 fanfic! Hopefully it feels in character - these two certainly have a unique dynamic.

Set somewhere early season 2 maybe, but it's not that important. Can be Steve/Danny if you want, but there's nothing intending that interpretation. Read how you want :)

Title is from Turning Page by Sleeping at Last.

Thanks to Jessie for forever encouraging me - all my love 3.

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 **We Will Tame the Vicious Seas**

It was hardly a surprise when Steve, grumpy face going full blast, showed up not even thirty minutes after Danny called Chin to tell him he wouldn't be coming into work. The choice to call Chin was a deliberate one, hoping to buy himself an extra hour or two before Steve showed up. The fact that it bought him less than half of that told him just how worried Chin must have been. Danny had tried, like a real true and good faith effort, to convey that he was _fine_ and not to worry, but that must have gotten lost in translation during the call to Steve.

Steve, who was at his doorstep, trying hard and failing to look unconcerned. Danny could practically see the little wheels in Steve's head turning, trying to figure out why Danny would be upright and coherent enough to answer the door, yet ill enough to call out of work. Or maybe he was just upset he didn't get to Navy SEAL sneak his way into the house and give Danny another heart attack.

"Hi," Danny finally said when Steve continued to stare at him, ignoring all standards of human interaction. As usual.

"What's wrong?" Steve's eyes had apparently completed their full body scan, determining Danny to be free of any bullet, knife, or other unhealthy penetrating object wounds.

"Nothing's wrong, Steve." And perhaps it was a bit more waspish than Steve strictly deserved, but, to be fair, Danny _was_ tried, having gotten less than an hour of sleep between his tossing and turning last night. It's not like he called out for no good reason. Unfortunately, Steve seemed equally aware of this.

"Nothing," he repeated blandly, disbelieving.

"It's a sniffle, Steven, just like I told Chin. On the phone. Because I don't require in person help. I just need some sleep and some soup and I'll be good as new. We don't have an active case right now, you guys can handle one day of paperwork without me."

"Didn't you just go to the doctor's office?" Steve asked, stepping past Danny to invite himself in.

"Yeah, I had a check-up yesterday afternoon. In fact, that's probably where I caught it," he lied. Danny trailed after Steve towards his own kitchen.

"Only you," the SEAL said as he opened the fridge, "only you can go to the doctor's office healthy and leave sick."

"It makes sense," he argued defensively. He crossed his arms, suddenly aware of how odd it felt for Steve to see him in his pajama t-shirt. Thank God he'd had the foresight to pull on some comfy jeans that morning instead of staying in his boxers. "Doctor's offices have some of the highest concentrations of germs."

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to wash your hands?" He removed something from the fridge and grabbed himself a glass.

Police officers, especially detectives, frequently became close with their partners. It was natural given the amount of time they were required to spend together. And Hawaii, as much as he hated the godforsaken paradise, was no different. But some part of him still expected to never settle in, to always feel like an outsider. Maybe he didn't want to settle in, to ever feel like this could be home.

But watching Steve, his reckless maniac of a Navy SEAL partner, navigate his kitchen better than his own, he realized just how accustomed he was becoming to life here. To the team. It still caught him off guard sometimes, but it was with much less bitterness that he noticed these small signs of permanency, of belonging.

"Didn't yours ever teach you not to barge uninvited into other people's houses?" Contented or not, he still had a front to put up.

"This isn't even a house," Steve debated as he returned the bottle to the fridge. "It's a bedroom with a bathroom, a couch, and a kitchenette. Barely any better than that first dump you were living in. When are you going to get a real place?"

"This is a real place, it's—what is that?" He stared at the glass, now being offered to him.

Steve looked down at it as though maybe the object wasn't what he thought it was. "It's orange juice."

"I can see that. Are you telling me you broke in to pour me a glass of orange juice?"

Steve frowned, eyebrows drawing down. "I didn't break in, you answered the door."

"I didn't invite—that's not the point! What is with the OJ?"

"Juice," Steve repeated, jerking the glass towards Danny once more, "it's what you drink when you're sick."

"I'm pretty sure orange juice's magical healing properties have been debunked, Mister Nature Survivalist."

Steve moved past Danny, leading back into the tiny living room, and Danny yet again followed the other man around his own house. "Can you please just appreciate a helping hand for once instead of analyzing the moment to death?" he groused.

"I would appreciate it if you hadn't barged into my house to do something I'm entirely capable of doing for myself. But thank you for the gesture, feel free to leave me to recuperate in peace. Why are you sitting down?"

Steve had settled himself on one side of the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, and remote in hand as the TV flickered to life before him.

"You said you were going to sleep, right? So it'll hardly bother you if I watch a little TV."

Danny nearly growled in frustration. All he needed, all he asked for, was a little alone time to process things before getting back to work tomorrow. He didn't need a babysitter and he definitely didn't need a juice-pourer.

"Steve—"

"Danny," the other man interrupted, voice serious enough to catch Danny off guard. "I don't know what's going on, but I know you wouldn't call out just for a case of the sniffles. If you don't want to talk about whatever, that's fine. But I'm going to be here if you do. I'm not going anywhere, buddy, so you might as well make yourself comfortable." He patted the couch cushion expectantly.

Danny paused, debating between denying it or taking the opportunity to unload his burden. Had he really been so transparent? How had Steve figured out so much in ten minutes of juice-focused debate?

It hadn't taken a genius to figure out that when his physician had returned with a "specialist" that something had gone wrong during his routine check-up. Within an hour he'd had an appointment at the hospital for more tests later that week. By the time they'd explained their suspicions and developed "an action plan" (and wasn't that just the most optimistic bullshit terminology Danny'd ever heard for a make-sure-you-don't-die-plan) the office was close to closing.

It also didn't taken a genius to figure out that painful lump building in the pit of his stomach wasn't fear so much as isolation. It was so much information, too much information, for one person to bear. He'd barely been able to take in the basics, let alone the fancy words. He had craved someone else there, someone not reeling from shock, to take charge. To write down all the important facts and make the moving-forward plans for Danny. To deal with insurance and appointments and all that fluff for him.

By the end of the whole thing, he'd wanted to roll over and puke on that ugly off-white, scuffed linoleum floor.

But the odds were good. Max would probably say the odds were forever in his favor even. But still, that sick shadow of anxiety that seemed to hang over his head in situations like this…it was feeding on his every doubt and insecurity, building seemingly realistic outcomes of doom. What if the doctors were wrong? What if he had months to live? What about Grace? Would she be scarred? Would she forget about him? What if she grew up not remembering his all-encompassing love for her?

"Danny?"

He blinked back into reality. Steve was staring at him curiously from his spot on the couch.

"Yeah, yeah, move over," he grumbled, trying to brush off his spiraling thoughts as he plunked down next to Steve. The other man watched him for a moment, seemingly waiting for some great emotional upheaval, but eventually turned back to the television and finding a good channel to watch.

Danny paid little mind to the sports game they landed on. His lack of sleep from the previous night was catching up to him. His head felt heavy and too sluggish to keep his anxiety-fueled worries churning. Instead he let his head drop onto the nearest comfy surface – if Steve minded the use of his shoulder as a pillow, he didn't say anything – and allowed his eyes to droop. It's not like Steve was expecting exhilarating conversation anyway, there was no harm in catching up on some sleep while he had the opportunity.

Just before he slipped out completely, he was faintly aware of the blanket being pulled from off the back of the couch and draped over him.

When he awoke, it was to the smell of something fragrant cooking in the kitchen. The TV was still playing, though it'd been all but muted, and they'd progressed to a new game. The blanket was still draped over his shoulders, but his comfortable Steve pillow had been replaced by an actual pillow, which was much more comfortable, but much less comforting.

Just as Danny began to sit up, running a hand through his messy pile of hair, Steve appeared at the doorway, freezing at the sight of Danny awake.

"Sorry if I woke you up." Danny was surprised by the genuine guilt on Steve's face, as though it truly was a crime tantamount to robbery to disturb him. Especially since, as far as Danny could tell, Steve had done everything possible to keep the room quiet.

"'s fine. What time is it?" The shades were drawn, something else that must have happened while he was asleep, but he could still see sunlight out. He'd slept for a while, that much he could tell. Everything felt distorted and muddled. For all he knew it could be a new day entirely.

"Almost five. I have some chicken cooking if you're feeling up to it."

Danny nodded and stretched as Steve disappeared into the kitchen.

There weren't enough words to express his gratitude, both for Steve being here and for allowing this façade to continue. They were both well aware that Danny was hardly suffering the latest cough or stomach bug.

It wasn't like the SEAL to stand-by, knowingly in the dark. Normally he was a Pitbull after answers, never willing to let go when he had the faintest whiff of fresh news. He'd done it with dozens of suspects, he'd done it with Joe, and he'd certainly done it before with Danny. But somehow he could tell that wasn't what was needed right now. He was idling by, cooking dinner of all things, letting Danny keep his silence as long as he wanted. He wasn't sure how long it'd last, though he doubted he'd get Steve to leave without knowing. If Danny really pushed it, maybe Steve would spend the night and corner him on the way to work tomorrow, but that felt less than ideal.

He owed Steve for getting him this far, for getting him to a place where he could put his fears to voice. Maybe even to a place where he _wanted_ to do so.

There was no subtle way to drop the news. Not with Steve. He'd only balk at the typical 'let's sit down' or 'I know this will be hard to hear'. That bullshit would only infuriate him further.

Danny found himself in the doorway, watching Steve's broad back as he did the dishes. It was an odd sight, watching such a tough guy Navy SEAL gently sponge down a ceramic plate. He looked both out of place and right at home. Danny had offered, but Steve had insisted he could cook and do the dishes without problem. They both knew it was to give Danny more time to spill his guts, whether it came from guilt or genuine preparedness.

As the last dish went into the rack and Steve began to dry his hands in the towel, Danny finally spoke, the words feeling like a physical weight he needed to push off his tongue. "It's a tumor." That wasn't quite right, still too distant. "I-I have a tumor, I mean." He had to take ownership, in a way, bring such a foreign medical term into his own possession, just as it had taken up residence, uninvited, within his body. It wasn't just a thing that existed out there in the world, it was personal.

Steve went stiff, towel still in his frozen hands.

Danny didn't know what else to say. There had been so much jargon thrown his way last night. How much of it bore repeating? How much was the decent amount to say?

Steve, with his back still to Danny, let both of his hands rest on the edge of the sink. He looked exhausted suddenly, as though this was the last straw in a string of bad runs. He held his head straight, staring holes into the off-yellow paint above the sink.

He really needed to repaint, Danny thought suddenly.

Still tense, Steve took a deep breath, as though he too needed to physically prepare for the conversation, and suddenly blurted, with a good deal more fear than Danny had ever heard from Steve outside of a fire fight, "Cancer?"

Danny abruptly realized a crucial bit of information he'd left out in his one-word explanation. And correcting that was a good place to start.

"No," he said quickly, watching Steve's shoulders drop in relief. "No, it's benign. Not-cancerous."

"Thank God," Steve muttered, head drooping briefly. It was almost strange to see such a visceral representation of his concern. It wasn't like Danny didn't know, wouldn't do anything for Steve in a heartbeat, but still…to see it so clearly before him.

"It's, uh…an ad-e-noma," he said slowly, trying to recall the word from last night, "in my adrenal gland. They found it by accident at my doctor's appointment. That's, uh…that's common, I guess. To find them accidentally." Steve didn't react, but Danny knew he was taking it all in, mentally logging each and every word. In fact, he knew without a doubt that the other man was going to go home and research every article ever written about the damn thing. Probably suggest a second opinion too, just because.

"I have to go in for an MRI on Friday, to check the size. But usually they're really small so they don't take them out."

"So…it's okay? You'll be fine?" Steve asked quietly. It was timid, made all the more obvious when compared to Steve's usually assertive manner, but Danny could see the hope in it. The fear of too much hope.

It wasn't a question Danny had prepared an answer for. He'd been focused on remembering all the facts. The extremely low malignancy rate, the three month MRI check to watch for any growth…it'd all been pushing for front and center in his brain. The central idea of him _not_ dying had also been pretty present. But it all seemed so far from _fine_.

He'd waited too long. Steve turned, pushing off the sink rather forcefully, and took a few urgent steps forward.

"Danny? You'll be okay, yeah?"

"Y-yeah, I'll be…" He couldn't quite bring himself to say the word fine. Last night all he could think about was how they must have been wrong. It was malignant. Or the MRI would show it had to be surgically removed. And he'd die on the table. Or they'd leave a damn sponge in him or something. That happened all the time, right? And then what about Grace? What about the team? Rachel – would she be upset? He'd like to think so, even with all their rough patches…

"Danny." He blinked and Steve was suddenly right in front of him. Steve's hands, somehow perpetually warm, rested on Danny's shoulders as if he could physically ground Danny's rising fears. Steve stared him right in the eyes and told him, "You will be fine. Okay? It's benign, non-symptomatic. They found it by accident, you said, and that means you're way ahead of the game. They'll watch it and catch it if anything goes wrong. You are fine and you will be fine."

It was so much easier to tether his anxieties to reality when he had someone else to reassure him.

Steve seemed to have some sort of realization based on the way his eyebrows jumped then sunk down in concern. "You've been sitting with this all by yourself…all last night and today, you were going to sit here all day by yourself…" He seemed, frankly, horrified. Offended, even.

"You were here," Danny offered, but Steve let him get no further as he pulled Danny forward into a crushing hug.

"You should have called me last night. From the doctor's office, even. Why would you think for one second you couldn't come to the team with this? _To me?"_

"I was going to tell you guys soon," he mumbled, but, buried in such a deep embrace, it felt weak. Why be alone when he could be right here?

Steve pulled back, but maintained he grasp on Danny's shoulders. "I'll go with you on Friday. To the MRI."

"You don't have to—"

"Or, if you'd rather, I can send Chin and Kono. Might as well add Max and Cath to be safe. Maybe Kamekona. I'll call Rachel too."

"You wouldn't dare." He narrowed his eyes, though eye intimidation was difficult with a Navy SEAL who had a good six inches on him. It was all for show, though. He knew Steve would tell no one without his permission.

How was he going to go about telling people, though? Likely, and after Friday they'd know for sure, nothing was going to change. He wouldn't even need surgery. Should he even tell people at all?

"Hey," Steve said, apparently sensing the ever downward spiral of Danny's thought. He waited for Danny to look up and make eye contact. "We'll figure it out."

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